


here be dragons

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Holmes Family Feels, Missing Scene, bit of angst, bit of humor, mycroft looks out for his baby brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He fears there are only so many ways his brother can cheat Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here be dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129639430#t129639430) at sherlockbbc-fic that asks for Mycroft's reaction to the news that Sherlock's been shot and his ensuing hospital visit.

He’s at the club, savouring his evening brandy, when John calls. 

“I’m at St. Bart’s. Sherlock—”

He doesn’t wait for John to work through his crippling anxiety before hanging up and summoning his car. He leaves his drink at the edge of the desk, unfinished. Clara joins him as he’s walking briskly through the foyer, her heels landing harmlessly on carpet laid with the sole purpose of stifling disruptions to the natural order of things. 

“Will you be needing me?”

“Not today,” he responds succinctly and continues on, pushing past the doors to the outside. Wesley’s already there waiting.

“St. Bart’s.”

“The hospital, sir?”

“Yes. It seems my baby brother is dying.”

*

It was a fairly small caliber, low velocity bullet lodged in the parietal pleura, causing a hemothorax that proved fatal for approximately 4.7 seconds. 

“What were the two of you doing?” Mycroft looks through the glass, at the tube protruding from Sherlock’s chest leading to a suction working methodically to keep his lungs inflated. A flexible, plastic lifeline. “And don’t try to cover for him, John, he’s a grown man who needs to take responsibility for his actions, despite the impression he gives as being neither grown nor responsible.”

John pauses to weigh the consequences of a lie and the truth. His anxiety levels are lower now, but still abnormally high for someone who’s seen his share of death and suffering.

“We broke into Magnussen’s office.”

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment, as if that might offer him respite from all the trouble Sherlock’s caused him since birth. 

“But he wasn’t the shooter.”

It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that John’s frowning now. “How did you know?”

“Magnussen’s not violent man, nor is he a stupid one. Being the prime suspect in a murder investigation is the likely result of having a dead man in your office.”

“Right. Yes, well, Sherlock’s not dead. Not. Dead.” John breathes deeply through his nose and Mycroft sincerely hopes he’s not about to cry, for both their sakes.

“He’s always been more resilient than the world gives him credit for.” There was the bout of pneumonia at the tender age of four, a nasty motorbike collision at sixteen, and an overdose at 25 that had their parents lamenting for months over their failure to raise him right. Every time Death knocks on his door, Mycroft feels the dread in the pit of his stomach grow, knowing that the universe is rarely so merciful.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were being sentimental.”

He doesn’t deign to respond given the self-indulgent idiocy of the remark, and neither of them moves until Sherlock starts to wake.

*

“Who let you in here?” Sherlock sounds groggy, barely cognizant of his surroundings but comfortably so, clearly enjoying the generosity of his morphine drip.

“The nurse. I informed her that I’m family.”

“She believed you?” His eyes sharpen. “You could’ve been my assailant trying to finish the job.”

“I would’ve been a better shot.” Mycroft takes the chair by the bed and props his umbrella against the armrest.

“Your bark has always been worse than your bite.” _Sticks and stones._ Only when Mycroft grew up did he come understand that some scars are invisible.

Sherlock closes his eyes and Mycroft studies him for a moment, the pallor of his skin, and the hollows of his cheekbones, looking as though Death hasn’t quite finished with him yet. In this silence, without his words to deflect attention, his vulnerabilities are painfully apparent. Along with the white sheets, white walls, and white light, they strip him of his years until he’s a boy again, acquainting himself with the world’s cruelty. 

“Did you identify the shooter?”

“No.”

“Judging by the placement of the bullet, he aimed to incapacitate you, not to kill you. Are you sure you don’t know him?”

“Yes, I’m sure I don’t know him, what _exactly_ are you hoping to achieve with this line of questioning?” His voice tells Mycroft he’s being utterly tiresome, eyes stubbornly closed. And Mycroft, well acquainted with his brother’s moods, knows it’s Sherlock’s version of the petulant child.

“Mother wants you home for Christmas.” He thinks that’ll do the trick, and, sure enough, Sherlock’s eyes fly open.

“What did you _tell_ her?” His face is contorted in the sort of agony that can’t be dulled by narcotics.

“That you’ve gotten yourself shot and you’re in no condition to take care of yourself, although when are you ever. I may have also mentioned that you miss her Christmas pudding.” If his brother insisted on defying his orders, he would get through to him another way.

“You’re not going? Why are you not going?”

“Me? Don’t be absurd. I have things to do, places to be. But do give Mummy my best.”

“This is punishment,” Sherlock says to the ceiling, always inclined to dramatics.

“This is a lesson.” 

In truth, it has little to do with Magnussen now and mostly to do with Sherlock’s reckless disregard for his own life, brought about, in part, by the blind faith he places in his calculations of the world. Mycroft has been many things in his life, but he’s prepared to go to great lengths to ensure he’ll never be a man who has to bury his own brother.


End file.
